


A Little Push

by iwassoalone



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John Watson, Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 09:20:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4823603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwassoalone/pseuds/iwassoalone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All John wants is a cup of tea, it's simple really. Then Sherlock Holmes makes a miscalculation and their world's turn upside down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Push

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thorntonsheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thorntonsheart/gifts).



> Thanks to Zerokoala for her thorough editing process of this story, and her lovely lecture on the usage of commas. Also to the ever amazing thortonsheart for her continued support with my writing and for the conversation that inspired this wicked little number.

A Little Push.

The evening is a still one in 221b as John, freshly showered and suitably relaxed, sits in his arm chair ready to peruse the paper after a ridiculously long day at the clinic. Sherlock Holmes, as per usual, is utterly absorbed in some sort of experiment, mixing one substance with another and humming thoughtfully at the results in the kitchen. 

It had been like this for months since he and Mary had finally called it a day and he’d come back home. Moving back into Baker St had just seemed like the natural thing to do. Obviously he missed having a girlfriend (he’d avoided dating like the plague) and all the things that came with a relationship - intimacy, companionship and sex - sweet jesus he missed sex, but generally he was just fine, thank you very much . 

It was almost like he’d never left, things between him and Sherlock and ‘The Work’ were calmer than they’d been in years, no more Moriarty's or Magnussen's, and he was looking forward to a quiet night in with his paper, slippers and a hot milky cup of tea. 

“John.” Sherlock’s voice was almost a whisper. He heard his flatmate walk softly through to the living room, coming to a standstill next to his armchair. He looked up at Sherlock and tried to ignore the way his tummy flip flopped. Sherlock looked impeccably put together and ethereally beautiful in his Spencer and Hart suit teamed with a midnight blue shirt. 

“John!” His flatmates voice was more urgent now. 

“What is it, Sherlock?” John asked, seconds before he heard fizzing and the sound of glass shattering. John’s head snapped towards the kitchen and he saw a vivid yellow smoke rising from the remains of a glass beaker. 

“I may have miscalculated…”Sherlock trailed off, grabbing his scarf and shoving it over his mouth. He threw John’s discarded jumper to him and motioned for him to do the same. John did, internally sighing and eyeing the vapours in the kitchen which seemed to be magically expanding and spreading. 

John followed Sherlock down the stairs and out onto the street kissing goodbye to his slippers and tea.

*

Three hours later found Dr John Watson and his sodding flatmate propping up the desk of the lobby of a Travelodge, in a rundown area of London. Apparently some sort of massive political conference was going on, as it was impossible to find a bloody bed to rest his aching leg on. All he wanted to do was go back to Baker St, but Environmental pigging Health had to give them the all clear and they wouldn’t be able to get there until the morning. 

John was rapidly losing his cool. His feet hurt and he hadn’t had much time to do anything other than throw his jumper and coat on over his pajamas and he really fucking wanted a bloody cup of tea please!  
A tall, portly gentleman with a hair loss problem, glasses and abundant facial hair stood behind the desk clacking away at a computer and tutting, his thin lips pulled taut. He looked rather like a balding grizzly bear John thought. 

“You’ve left it rather late to book a room.” The receptionist said, his deep voice laced with annoyance. John stifled a sigh, if they were turned away again, John was going to start throwing punches, preferably in Sherlock’s direction, although smacking the look of pure disdain off of ‘Alec’s’ face right now was mighty tempting. 

“Nonsense.” Sherlock said coldly. “You merely take this job as an opportunity to spread as much misery as humanely possibly and with how pathetically empty the rest of your life is I can quite see why.” 

“Now, hang on a minute!” The receptionist began only to be cut off by a wave of Sherlock’s hand. 

“You live with your mother, with whom you clash on a regular basis. You haven’t had a romantic relationship since you were an adolescent and you have a small circle of friends who feel you don’t appreciate them. You are addicted to truly appalling tv, have an unhealthy love of floral furniture and your closest friend is an ageing whippet.” Sherlock’s voice clipped the T while the man opposite them spluttered unattractively. “Now, a room?” 

“Room 412.” The receptionist grumbled after clicking furiously away on his ergonomic keyboard. Sherlock snatched the proffered key with a dazzling smile and turned on his heel, Belstaff swinging and flaring around his long legs as he walked away. John shot Alec one last dirty look before turning and marching after Sherlock who was waiting by the lifts. 

Their room was simple, if a little cramped. John eyed the singular double bed with trepidation. He watched as Sherlock hung his coat up and went to sit in the lone white plastic chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. 

“What the fuckering bloody hell was that?” John asked, his resolve finally snapping. Sherlock met his gaze, a look of confusion gracing his angular face, making him look years younger than he was. 

“John?”

“What. Was. That.” John repeated, his blood pressure rising as the night’s events caught up with him. Sherlock blinked, looking like a befuddled owl, which in normal circumstances John would have found rather endearing but tonight made him even angrier.

“Well, that man was truly obnoxious and deserved every word I said. After all it was all true…” Sherlock said. John made a sound of frustration, throwing his hands in the air.

“Not that! Fucking hell Sherlock, it’s practically midnight and you’ve dragged me all around London in my bloody pajamas because of a flaming miscalculation.” John kicked the bathroom door sending it flying back into the bathroom wall with a resounding bang. Sherlock stood and took a tentative step towards where John was standing. 

“You just don’t fucking care about anyone else do you?!” John yelled, his fists balled at his sides. 

“That is not true, John.” Sherlock said, his voice low and pensieve. Sherlock closed the distance between them. Feeling pissed off and reckless, John brought his hands up and shoved Sherlock hard backwards.

“You could try fucking proving it sometimes!” Breathing hard, John looked at Sherlock where he’d stumbled back a few paces. His best friend’s eyes had grown dark and John hoped it was anger simmering within those shimmering depths, he needed a good way to blow off some steam. 

John could never have predicted what happened next, could never have foreseen how Sherlock would once again close the small gap between them and with a look of cautious determination, grab the lapels of his jacket. John Watson would never have imagined that Sherlock would then bend his lithe body forwards, his movements as precise and elegant as they had always been. With a gentleness John had never seen the other man display, he pressed his petal soft lips to the frowning chapped lips of his own face.

Time stopped, or at least slowed down a hell of a lot. Sherlock’s lips were on his own, pressing chastely. None of Sherlock’s usual smugness or brashness about this kiss. It was soft and sweet and oh so delicious. John’s fists uncurled, his hands found themselves lifting and tangling in the luscious brunette ringlets he’d always dreamt about, but would never admit to anyone. 

John’s movement had seemed to spur Sherlock on, he pulled John into his arms, long limbs wrapping around his torso. It was the least explicit kiss John had ever experienced and yet somehow the most erotic. Sherlock huffed a breath against John’s lips and moved to pull away. John Watson had always been a man of action rather than words, ironic given his status as blogger. It was with the most decisive action he’d ever taken that he pulled Sherlock straight back to his previous position and kissed him. 

John’s kiss was nowhere near as tentative and innocent as Sherlock’s had been, lips pressed so hard together they tingled. John’s tongue explored the skin of Sherlock’s lips, running slowly across the seam of Sherlock’s closed mouth. The taller man gasped and John’s tongue darted into action, pushing to meet Sherlock’s own tongue where John fancied it lay trembling and embarrassed in his mouth.

With a deafening crash to his psyche the full extent of the situation hit John, just as his teeth bit down gently on the plump flesh of Sherlock’s lower lip. This was Sherlock. His best friend, not his lover. His flatmate, not his boyfriend. His colleague, definitely not his husband. Sherlock did not do this. In the long years John had known Sherlock, the closest he’d seen the other man come to being sexual were the lingering awkward kisses he’d shared with Janine, shortly before the whole Magnussen affair, and they had, at the crux of it, been necessary for the case. 

John pulled away in a panic, holding Sherlock at arms length. He was breathing heavily, a cavalcade of emotions battering him.

“What are you doing?” His voice was gruff and just a tad breathless. He didn’t mean for his question to sound so harsh, so unwilling. What he wanted to say was, do you mean this? Do you want this as much as I do?

“I-I was kissing you.” Sherlock had that innocent look on his face that he always got when he was terribly unsure about the way social interactions were meant to be conducted.

“Why?” John’s mouth said and he wanted to kick himself. Deep down he’d wanted this for as long as he could remember.

“You asked me to prove it to you, I thought kissing you was a socially acceptable way to show you that I do ca…” 

“Christ, Sherlock! You can’t just go around kissing your best mate to prove a point!”

“No John, I- I mean- I do- I’m sorry.” Sherlock stuttered looking utterly miserable.

“What was I huh? Some kind of grand experiment?” John asked, panic and anger causing his voice to break. A few minutes ago he’d been kissing Sherlock, drowning in bliss and now they were arguing again. 

Sherlock’s back straightened at the accusation and John expected him to turn around and flop on the bed in a sulk. Instead he pushed past John’s outstretched arms and grabbed the short hairs at the nape of John’s neck. The sensation was unlike anything he’d felt before. John wasn’t a particularly tall man, he’d rarely dated women taller than himself. Now, with this gorgeously imposing man bearing down on him, he wanted to shut up, and do anything Sherlock wanted. 

“You have never been an experiment, you fool.” Sherlock’s voice was laden with passion and icy to boot. His palm slipped up to cup John’s skull and John could feel that Sherlock’s hand practically spanned the back of his head. Sherlock’s lips smashed against his own so forcefully their teeth clacked together. Where John had dominated the previous kiss, Sherlock owned this one. His movements were brutal, forceful, possessive. It was the very essence of raw desire and John felt it pump through him in waves, leaving him trembling in Sherlock’s hold. 

The first kiss had slowed time down but now, lost in their want for each other, John lost himself. Sooner than he could have anticipated he was flat on his back on the hotel bed, naked as the day he was born, with Sherlock sat astride his thighs, also pleasingly naked. They were kissing frantically, gulping down each others breath, hands running over expanses of skin, both tanned and pale. Sherlock dipped his head to John’s chest and laved at a nipple until John was bucking underneath him with the want for more. 

“Sh-Sherl’ck , God, more. I need more.” John panted as Sherlock’s body began to move slowly, a gentle canting of the hips. Sherlock sat up, his eyes gleaming and softly moved his hand under John’s head where it lay on the rumpled duvet. Long fingers flexed and tightened, digging into the mop of silver strands on John’s skull. His lover tightened his hand and pulled forcefully, causing lightning pinpricks of pain and pleasure to shoot through John’s body. It was glorious, wonderful, addictive and John arched his back, pushing his head down into Sherlock’s hand silently begging for more. 

“Mmm, you like that don’t you Captain?” Sherlock’s husky voice held notes of excitement in it and John knew even now, Sherlock was cataloging everything John liked for the future. Sherlock pulled again and John groaned, this man was killing him. In the shortest time he’d ruined everything John had thought he’d known about his own sexual identity. He’d come into the room knowing he loved the physical aspects of having sex with a woman, the softness, the curves, the deep wet heat. He’d known he had always much prefered being the dominant partner, had never really felt right about submitting to anyone's will before, but now, pinned down by his lover and all his glorious angles and hardness, John knew there was a side of him he’d never known had existed. A side that only existed for Sherlock Holmes. It terrified and thrilled him in equal measure.

“Words, John.” Sherlock said. Although his low voice was soft, there was no mistaking it was an order.

“Yes, God yes.” John babbled, rocking his hips desperately against Sherlock’s perfect arse. He imagined how it would be to have Sherlock sheathed around his cock, bouncing and writhing as he rode John. It made the older man whine and Sherlock dug his nails into his scalp. 

“Now, listen carefully. You will not close your eyes. You will not touch me, or yourself. You will watch me, only me. You’re mine.” Sherlock drawled, his grip on John’s hair and skull tightening even further. John felt thoroughly owned and they hadn’t even shagged yet. Fucking bloody hell, the man was a genius. 

“Yes.” John rasped and Sherlock smiled, trailing a long finger over John’s dry lips. Sherlock moved his hand to make a loose fist over his own cock and bucked just the tiniest amount into the circle of his fingers. It was incredibly arousing seeing Sherlock touch himself, seeing the shiny wet pink head slip back and forth through Sherlock’s fingers.

“This, John, oh this is what you do to me. What you’ve always done to me, this is for you, you absolute idiot.” Sherlock’s voice was higher than usual as he continued to lazily thrust into his own fist. John’s fingers itched with the urge to slap Sherlock's’ hand away and take that silky heated flesh into his own hands. To elicit the deep groans with his own touch but Sherlock had forbade him. There was no way he was going to disobey an order. Not from this wonderful, gorgeous, maddening man.  
“You’ve r-ruined me John. I am wrapped in you, drowning in everything you are, in your heart, soul, mind and body.” Sherlock kept up his breathy monologue as his hips moved faster, snapping backwards and forward into his hold. As the younger man moved, his arse rubbed along John’s aching cock, pre-come and sweat making the friction sensational. John’s erection was nestled neatly in the crack of Sherlock’s rear. He could feel the luscious heat of Sherlock’s full, throbbing ball sack against the head of his cock, every time Sherlock rocked backwards.

“I- I spent so many years, so many, John, fighting this, lust, sentiment, but I can’t anymore, oh Christ, I can’t stop myself anymore.” Sherlock sounded pained and John watched as Sherlock squeezed his own length, his wrist flicking over the head before making it’s way back to the base. 

“Y-you don’t need to now Sherlock, Jesus, don’t ever hide from me again.” John begged, his voice gruff, he wanted to place his hands on Sherlock’s pointed hips, against the muscular back he’d glimpsed once or twice and rock them both to completion. 

“I can’t... Fuck, oh fuck... John...” Sherlock whimpered, stilling his hips and instead, moving his hand rapidly over his stiff penis. John could tell Sherlock was close to orgasm and oh how he wanted to be painted with Sherlock’s come, to feel the product of whatever this was between them.

“Mine, John... My John... M-mine...” Sherlock’s eyes had fluttered shut, the muscles on his neck protruding, hand flying over his erection.

“Yes, yes. Yours, I’m yours baby.” John whispered, his own climax ebbing and flowing as Sherlock’s hips jerked erratically. 

“S-say it again...” Sherlock whined, his eyes flying open and locking with John’s. Sherlock looked so gorgeous like this, sweat soaked and desperate for release. His skin flushed and flyaway curls somewhat tamed as they stuck to his face. 

“Sherlock. I’m yours. I’m all yours. Oh God, I’ve been yours for so long now. Y-yours.” John moaned, his hips bucking, searching for the exquisite friction he needed so badly. 

“F-fuck John... John... coming... Going to c-come on you...” Sherlock cried out, giving his cock one last hard squeeze before he came, pearly liquid covering John’s chest and stomach. Sherlock’s hips were moving freely, riding his release and John couldn’t stop the sounds that came from his throat. It felt so very good and then he was climaxing, coming against Sherlock’s arse.

Sherlock fell forward, the grip that’d been unrelenting on John’s head finally loosening. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, kissing the skin of Sherlock’s shoulder. He felt drunk, he hadn’t come that hard in years He had never thought sex with anyone could make him feel so free, so liberated. They panted heavily against each other for several minutes until Sherlock rolled off of him and grabbed the box of tissues from the night stand, cleaning them both off.  
“So- uh, see. I do.” Sherlock broke the companionable silence a few minutes later. John’s head was fuzzy and a hot shower and snuggling with his flatmate (boyfriend? Lover?) seemed to be on the cards. 

“Huh?” John asked, his post coital brain refusing to catch up. Sherlock huffed and leant up on one elbow so he was looking down at John, the fingers of his free hand feathered over the silver hair of John’s brow in an uncharacteristically tender touch.

“I care, John, for you. Rather immeasurably.” Sherlock confessed, looking sheepish and John grinned, joy flowing through his veins to settle comfortably in his heart.

“Yeah, I care too.” He whispered, pulling Sherlock’s face down so their lips met, his fingers tangled in Sherlock’s curls. A shower could wait.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to know what you guys think. Comments inspire me. Not that I'm begging, much.


End file.
